


The loss of healing

by dark_nexus17



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Castiel, Gen, Post Season 8, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:42:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_nexus17/pseuds/dark_nexus17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'In that brief instant, he is struck with the realisation that he can no longer correct the more long term damage of his companion's lifestyle: the aches and pains, sore joints and tired muscles that are part of a hunter's existence.'</p>
<p>There are things that Castiel misses about being an angel; there is one aspect he misses more than the others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The loss of healing

**Author's Note:**

> Title: The loss of healing
> 
> Pairings: None, although there will be a sequel that is Dean/Cas orientated.
> 
> Warnings: Post season 8 - so spoilers for the finale. Hurt/Comfort. General sadness.
> 
> Summary: There are things that Castiel misses about being an angel; there is one aspect he misses more than the others.
> 
> Also on my tumblr account and ff.net

The first time Castiel misses his angelic healing ability is mere minutes after the last of his brethren flares across the night sky. Although he does not observe it, he can hear his sibling's lonely voice fade from the heavenly chorus. He spares only a brief thought for the fact that he can still hear angels, now one angel, which he assumes is, no, he cannot even think the name; the wound is too fresh.

As his senses -muted, reduced - return to him, Castiel's thoughts turn immediately to the Winchesters. He instinctively reaches out, searching for his friends' familiar minds. It takes a moment to register that he can no longer sense them, that he is alone. He falls to his knees, and lets out a sharp scream, as a piece of wood, facing upwards from the ground, slightly pierces the side of his leg. Although the wound appears to be shallow, when he removes the wood, and the splinters it left behind, it bleeds and stings. He has of course, felt pain before, during his time on Earth when his powers were slowly leaving him. He remembers the searing pain of the knife carving the banishment symbol into his chest. He remembers the split second agony of his demise at the hand of his damned brother.

He weeps for his lost abilities, slightly stunned by the salty tracks making their way down his cheeks.

***

When Sam and Dean find him hours later - he does not yet have the strength to ask how - he has cause again to mourn the loss of his ability to heal himself and others. Sam, his _friend_ , having nearly completed all of the trials that he knew now would have killed him, is barely upright. When he presses his fingers to his friend's forehead, only to have them gently removed with a sad smile, the resulting shock makes him retch and convulse with disgust and fear. How, _how_ , is he supposed to exist like this? He is useless, worthless; he is nothing but a burden to those he has come to love. Waves of hatred and loathing crash through his mind; hatred and loathing for the one who cast him from his home, for his Father, but mostly, overwhelmingly, for himself. He let this happen, and now must bear the fruit of his endeavours.

***

The car journey towards the men of letters bunker is nothing short of hell.

Dean looks exhausted, but oddly at ease with the situation. He does not speak apart from to enquire after his, and Sam's welfare. Castiel cannot find it within himself to reply. He gazes out of the confines of the vehicle, longing for what he can no longer have. He observes Dean's worried glances into the back of the car from the mirror that hangs above the dashboard, and avoids his friend's eye. Sam sleeps for most of the journey; haggard and drained. Castiel is once again reminded that he cannot do anything about Sam's condition, he curses himself: he should have known the price they would have to pay for closing hell; he should have implored Sam and Dean to stop when he sensed the condition of Sam's body last time he had cared to pay attention. Not only had he been absent recently, when he had been with his small, precious, human family, he had been a poor friend, caring only for his own ends, despite his conviction that it was all for the greater good.

***

It is weeks later, when he has had more time than he wanted to reflect on his short comings that another aspect of his loss hits him. He is in the kitchen of the bunker, watching Dean wash plates and bowls, and drying them when they are handed to him. He takes this moment to study his friend, his brother in arms. Carefully, he memorises each freckle, each line upon Dean's face, recalling the process of remaking the man in front of him, of patching his soul with his own grace. He notices that Dean looks more worn than usual. As he is cataloguing his friend, he notices lines that he cannot smooth away, scars he should have been able to heal, making Dean's skin as unmarred as in the moment Castiel made him whole again. In that brief instant, he is struck with the realisation that he can no longer correct the more long term damage of his companion's lifestyle: the slow poisoning of his liver, the build up of lipids in his arteries, the aches and pains, sore joints and tired muscles that are part of a hunter's existence. He does not notice that he has dropped the plate he was holding until he is sitting among the shards on the kitchen floor. Dean is at his side, shaking his shoulder, calling his name. He turns towards his friend, and he knows the devastation of this particular loss must show in some way on his face because Dean's own face becomes pale, his eyes more concerned. Dean's hand on his shoulder is more urgent now, and his friend asks him repeatedly what's wrong, if he's unwell. From the corner of his eye, Castiel sees Sam enter the kitchen, no doubt called there by the crash of the unfortunate plate he had been holding and Dean's anxious tone. Sam drops to his knees beside him, wary of the broken crockery. Cas hears him exchange a few words with Dean, enquiring as to what the problem seems to be. He looks up into Sam's face; he is a little better now than he was, but Cas can still read the weariness in his friend's bones, the ache in his soul. Tears begin to fall from his eyes, he chokes out;

"I can't ..."

"Can't what Cas?" Dean asks, relief that Castiel is at least well enough to speak evident in his tone. Castiel turns to face him,

"I can't save you anymore, I can't prevent you from dying, I can't stop it."

He is suddenly enveloped in the arms of his family, and he reaches an arm round each of them, clinging to the only thing he has left as his tears flow, unchecked. He feels tears that are not his own on his face and neck, and wonders how humans cope with all these overwhelming emotions. Cas holds Sam and Dean a little tighter, and feels Dean lean into his embrace, as Sam rests his head on top of his own. Despite his distress, for the first time since the fall, Castiel feels as though he may survive this existence after all.


End file.
